


i've been on my own for long enough (maybe you can show me how to love)

by hellstrider



Series: Thousand Miles Verse [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Geralt is an idiot, Love Confessions, Love at First Sight, M/M, Tenderness, reupload, same
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:15:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22822402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellstrider/pseuds/hellstrider
Summary: jaskier is eighteen when an elf kicks him so hard in the chest it couldbreak something.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Thousand Miles Verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1587544
Comments: 13
Kudos: 541





	i've been on my own for long enough (maybe you can show me how to love)

**Author's Note:**

> reuploading thousand miles.
> 
> title from blinding lights by the weeknd
> 
> tumblr: thebardjaskier

Jaskier is _eighteen._

He’s eighteen and he’s _bright-eyed_ and puppy-faced and _unscarred,_ unscathed by the brutal world right outside the tavern door; Geralt is hedging on ninety-three, feels about _five-fucking-hundred,_

And the bardling is eighteen and says, frantically, “Geralt, where are you going? Geralt, don’t - don’t _leave me,_ ” and,

Jaskier is eighteen when an elf kicks him so hard in the chest it could _break something,_

And _Geralt can’t -_

He can’t be responsible for _this death,_ too.

_So,_

He gets them out of the elven hovel (by some miracle), and while Jaskier gets a new lute out of the deal, _Geralt -_

Geralt gets a song.

And Jaskier is _eighteen_ and puppy-faced and _bright-eyed_ and says, “respect doesn’t make history,” like he’s _twice his fucking age_ , maybe three, and Geralt _can’t be responsible for this death_ but Jaskier saunters off as he sings like he’s _not_ just been kicked in the chest by an elf so hard it could’ve _broken something,_

Sings about -

About _Geralt,_

And he's _eighteen_ and bright-eyed and _believes in something,_ still - Jaskier does - so Geralt lets him sing and can't fucking bring himself to bite hard enough to get the bard to run, can't seem to shake the bardling that sings after he's been _kicked in the goddamn chest_ hard enough to break, who laughs when people have the _audacity_ to think _anything_ could best one Geralt of Rivia,

_But then,_

So suddenly,

Jaskier is twenty-seven,

And Geralt has a _child_ out there that’s _bound to him,_

( _And Jaskier had been there, that night, had been there when Geralt had stupidly called out to the Law of Surprise, had held to Geralt’s elbow as the curse on Duny broke, had curled his fingers into Geralt’s jacket and clung so tight as Pavetta vomited over the fine marble floor_ ,)

And Jaskier is twenty-seven and he’s bright-eyed, still, holds wonder in his blue gaze like the sky holds the sun, but he's sharp-faced and his smile is quick as silver and he’s made a name for himself, has _built_ himself a _tiny empire_ on the precarious stilts of Geralt’s crumbling legend,

( _A legend Jaskier believes in with such a steadfast heart it makes Geralt want to believe in it, too_ ,)

And Jaskier has _made something_ of the _Witcher_ with ashen hair that matches his too-slow heart,

And Jaskier is twenty-seven when Geralt finds him in a tavern just outside Vizima, and Geralt's here because there’s a hag nearby that’s been haunting the dreams of an _entire village_ , but Geralt’s got the hag’s head in a bag on Roach’s saddle when he hears a rumor regarding a certain bardling that _soothed_ the nightmares with the way he sang,

So he finds Jaskier in the tavern outside Vizima,

Is hit by the scent of him as soon as he sets foot inside the threshold, follows it up to a door _that’s -_

_Fucking unlocked,_

And he pushes carefully into the room to find Jaskier pouring over a table littered with parchment, dressed in a thin tunic, sleeves rolled to his elbows, and it’s been _two years_ since he saw the bardling,

“How many times,” Geralt says wryly, when Jaskier turns quickly at the sound of the door unlatching, turns so quick his chair legs squeal over the wooden floor; “have I told you to _lock the damn door,_ Jaskier?” and,

Those _bright,_ sky-blue eyes _light up,_

As Jaskier’s quicksilver grin unfurls across his face, a face long since stripped of the lingering roundness of youth, angular yet still so _innocent_ , sweet in a way that has Geralt’s gut _clenching,_

Which,

_Dangerous,_

It’s _dangerous,_

Because he can’t be _responsible_ for _this death_ , too,

But then Jaskier exclaims, “ _Geralt!”_

The name shaped around a laugh, and then the bardling is up out of his seat,

And Jaskier smells like _ink_ and _cedar,_

Like _smoke,_

Like _summer rose,_

When he embraces Geralt,

And he’s _warm_ and _lithe_ and Geralt hadn’t known _how fucking much_ he’d missed that scent until it’s _enveloping_ him, until it’s chasing away the lingering soreness of the road, until it’s reminding him of _every soft thing_ he’s _ever_ touched in his _too-long life_ , and,

It's been a _year,_

And Jaskier suddenly isn't eighteen,

And he spends his twenty-seventh year at Geralt's side, despite the _danger,_

Despite the way he earned a knotted, _gnarled_ scar on his shoulder when they'd been attacked by feral godlings in some cursed wood when he was nineteen,

Despite the _fear_ Geralt had tasted pouring from him when Jaskier had been forced to knit Geralt back together after a werewolf attack in the middle of the night when he was twenty-two,

Despite _all of it,_

Despite the fact that when Jaskier _met_ Geralt, he’d been unscarred, _unscathed,_

And Jaskier is just on the edge of twenty-eight, is bright-eyed and smells like _cedar_ , like _smoke_ , like _summer rose,_

When it hits Geralt _all at once_ , one evening,

As he lumbers back into the clearing where they’re camping,

And Geralt _hasn’t fucking been sleeping,_

And Jaskier has another new scar on his back and a new sword he wears at his hip, one he can use with some proficiency, enough so that Geralt isn't _constantly_ looking over his shoulder to find the damn bardling with the sky-blue eyes and a grin like quicksilver in the midst of battle,

Because he _can't be responsible for this death,_

Because _this death -_

This death would be the _end_ of him.

And,

It _hits_ Geralt, when Jaskier is twenty-eight, as Geralt comes lumbering back into camp with a deer slung over his shoulder,

To find Jaskier leaning against Roach’s side while he _talks to her_ \- while he _genuinely_ , truly, _speaks to Roach,_

As he braids fucking _dandelions_ through her mane,

And Roach keeps snorting and bobbing her head gently along with whatever the bardling is saying,

And it hits Geralt like a manticore horn to the fucking gut,

( _And he knows what that fucking feels like, knows how much it hurts, know how it can crush a man’s breastbone until it’s meeting his spine, knows it can turn lungs to jelly, knows that he’d thought it’d been the end when he’d gotten gored, gouged, split wide open_ ,)

So he goes about as _breathless_ as he had the day he’d taken a manticore horn to the _fucking gut,_

As Jaskier,

Twenty-eight,

_Scarred,_

_Sword-wielding,_

With his _quicksilver smile_ and _sky-blue eyes,_

_Talks to Roach,_

Braids dandelions into her mane,

And it _hits_ Geralt,

That the _fear_ he’d felt when Jaskier had taken an elven boot to the chest,

When Jaskier had been struck in the shoulder by a knife,

When Jaskier had gone down under a Drowner, 

The _fear_ he felt whenever his treacherous mind supplied him with the nightmare of Jaskier going _white-faced,_

_Blank-eyed,_

Silent,

_Still,_

Was a _fear_ borne of -

“You alright, Geralt?”

And,

“Get that nonsense out of her mane,” Geralt grunts, lowering the doe down beside the fire, while Jaskier, _unflappable_ as ever, merely grins and croons, “ _aw_ , she loves the _pampering_ , don’t you, darling?” 

As he gazes at Roach like she’s a _damn princess,_

And the mare chuffs and bobs her head, the damn _traitor,_

And Geralt spends _another_ fucking sleepless night _fucking -_

_Watching Jaskier sleep,_

Watching his chest rise and fall,

And he’s got Geralt’s cloak pillowed under his head,

Is _wearing one of Geralt’s tunics,_

Because he’d gone and _ripped_ his own,

And Geralt shuts his stinging eyes, 

As Roach wanders over to snuffle at his shoulder, sensing his strife,

_And;_

“I must be fucking _cursed,_ Roach,” the Witcher murmurs, reaching up to scratch at her snout, “and cursed things don’t have _any fucking business_ ruining pure hearts, do they?”

But _Roach,_

Who’s still got _fucking dandelions_ in her mane,

Just snorts and chuffs, sounding a little _scolding,_

And _Geralt can’t -_

He _can’t fucking have this blood_ on his hands, too,

But he _can’t fucking let Jaskier go,_

Just like he _can’t fucking sleep,_

But,

Flowers can’t thrive beneath ash,

And Geralt is all but _cinders,_

While Jaskier is as _bright_ as the soft yellow dandelions in Roach’s mane,

And Geralt is _realizing_ , now, sat beside a little fire in their camp in the middle of the woods, that the fear he'd had felt when Jaskier took an elven boot to the chest was a fear borne of _sudden_ , stupid, _foolish,_ lingering, _abiding -_

“Fuck,” Geralt spits, pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes, and Jaskier sleeps _so_ soundly beside the fire, Geralt’s cloak pillowed beneath his head, lithe torso _all_ wrapped up in one of Geralt’s tunics,

And he _can’t fucking let Jaskier go,_

Because the way Jaskier _smiles_ brings to mind _every soft thing_ Geralt’s ever felt and somehow outstrips _all of them,_

So he’s _going to need -_

Going to need some _help,_

If he’s to _save this life,_

The life he had _no business ruining,_

_So,_

“What on _earth_ are you doing?” 

And Geralt gathers up the net as Jaskier peers over his shoulder into the river,

“Searching,” Geralt grunts, and he can't bring himself to push Jaskier back, because he smells like _cedar_ , like _smoke,_ like _summer rose,_

Smells like _Geralt's cloak_ and _clove_ , like sleep, and he's warm where his chest brushes against Geralt's back, and it's - 

_So fucking much,_

“For breakfast? We still have -”

“Leave me _be_ , Jaskier,”

“Well we both know _that’s_ not going to happen,”

_“Jaskier -”_

“Someone’s woken up on the _wrong side of the moss patch_ \- unless,” Jaskier’s blue eyes narrow, and Geralt clenches his jaw; “you didn’t _sleep,_ did you? Did you try that tincture?”

“It _doesn’t fucking work_ ,” Geralt snarls, and he casts the net again as Jaskier plants his hands on his hips,

And,

Geralt finds the fucking Djinn-bottle,

But he and Jaskier are arguing _proper_ , now, as Jaskier grabs the _fucking handle_ of the Djinn-bottle, as Geralt _stupidly_ holds onto the lid, 

The lid that comes loose a _little too easily_ , in Geralt’s _professional opinion,_

All it takes is a handful of _ill-timed words_ , spat out in a frenzy of fear and sleeplessness, to have _blood_ pouring from Jaskier’s lips, 

_And,_

“If untreated, the curse could kill him,” the elf says, and Geralt’s stomach plummets down to his knees as Jaskier chokes, as he clutches at Geralt’s hands, at his arms, and Geralt demands,

“Who can cure it?”

“There’s a mage, in Rinde, but -”

And he’s long since been carved into a new beast gone old by sorcery and mutagens, but Geralt feels the _full brunt_ of it when he grabs the elf’s collar and snarls, “ _where do I find him?_ ” and,

 _He_ turns out to be -

“I can not only guess the _breed_ but also the color of your horse, just by the _smell,_ you know,”

“Unfortunate,” Geralt says absently, and he’s sat on a rickety old stool by Jaskier’s bedside as the bard sleeps through his healing,

And the sorceress huffs, then slowly strides around the end of the bed to peer at Geralt across it, a chasm where his heart lies _bleeding,_

“A friend?” Yennefer asks, violet eyes piercingly _knowing_ ; Geralt stays silent, jaw ticking, as he watches Jaskier’s chest rise, fall,

And he’s wearing one of Geralt’s tunics, gone _bloody_ down the front,

 _All_ from a handful of _ill-timed words_ , sleeplessly _cruel_ , packed with a fear _borne of -_

“He’ll be _fine_ , you know,” Yennefer says with a faint smile, arms folded over her chest as she leans against the bedpost, “I’m _very_ good at what I do, White Wolf,”

_“Hm,”_

A beat, then;

“You know, the songs make you seem _far_ more charming,”

_Which,_

“Written by a biased hand,” Geralt says, a bloom of fondness unfurling in his chest, and Yennefer glances at Jaskier before arching a brow,

 _“Ah,_ ” she murmurs, “so he’s _your_ bard, then,”

 _“Not_ mine.”

“And _yet,”_

And Geralt shuts his eyes,

Opens them to find Yennefer sitting across from him in a shoddy tavern not a week outside Kaer Morhen, both of them unchanged by the two years that have passed - two years Geralt’s felt burn through him like _two hundred,_ and the past six months...

The past six months in _particular_ have felt like _six-fucking-thousand,_

And Jaskier is thirty, now, would've just celebrated his nameday,

All without Geralt, this time,

And Yennefer tilts her head as she watches him across the table, violet eyes as _knowing_ as they ever were,

And Geralt’s not seen _Jaskier_ since -

Since the day on the mountain,

_Six-fucking-thousand years ago,_

Since the day he watched Jaskier get _struck_ by an arrow meant for _Geralt_ to take,

An arrow he would’ve taken a _thousand_ times over,

And Yennefer’s watching him with her knowing violet gaze as a song about Geralt’s _empty_ , ashen, _taking_ heart floats over the shoddy, _crumbling_ tavern,

As,

_He’s not mine,_

But,

_‘Is he not?’_

And Yennefer’s voice curls through his skull as Geralt thinks of the day in Rinde, as he thinks of;

_So he’s your bard?_

_Not mine,_

_And yet,_

And yet -

Jaskier is _thirty,_

And he’s _scarred,_

Has a bag of potions and tinctures that Yennefer has _taught him to use,_

Has a _sword_ strapped to one hip, hilt-made callouses on his palms,

Golden rings on his fingers,

Moves with a confidence that used to be _false,_ a confidence that permeates the very air around him now, seems to shake the ground where he walks,

And Geralt rode through the night to find him after -

_He’s not mine,_

_Is he not?_

And,

_You belong to someone, Geralt,_

_Do not squander it,_

So,

He’d traveled a thousand miles or more,

All to fall to his knees at Jaskier’s feet,

The _only fucking thing_ that’s ever brought one Geralt of Rivia down,

_And,_

Everything comes back to the moment in some clearing outside Vizima,

When Jaskier had been twenty-eight,

Dressed in one of Geralt’s tunics,

As he braided dandelions into Roach’s mane,

When Geralt had stepped back into camp to Jaskier _rambling_ at his _goddamn horse,_

Dressed in Geralt’s clothes,

Smelling of them both,

When Geralt had been _hit in the gut_ with a sensation not unlike the time he’d been _gored_ by a manticore,

When Geralt had _realized_ the _fear_ he’d felt when an elven boot had collided with Jaskier’s chest had been one borne of -

And it comes back to _that moment,_

As Geralt steps back into camp once again,

But it’s _two years_ and a handful of weeks later,

When Geralt steps back into their camp outside Novigrad, a _stag_ over his shoulder this time,

( _And he’s already hatching plans to make Jaskier a blessed knife from one of the horns, will use the other to make a protective amulet Jaskier will never take off_ ,)

And Jaskier is stood by the fire, is still damp from his bath in the nearby pool of still, clear water,

Is just in his trousers,

Stripped of his rings,

His sword,

Baring his scars,

As he runs his hands through his hair,

As he _rambles_ _at Roach,_

And Roach keeps bobbing her head and snorting as Jaskier _rambles_ at her, says things like;

“I keep thinking I’ll wake up to find it all a _dream_ , how silly is that?” and,

“I mean, how many times did I have this _exact_ dream?” and,

“He’s standing _right_ behind me, isn’t he?”

And,

Roach chuffs and wanders off, picking her way across the clearing,

As Jaskier turns around, 

And Geralt gentles the stag to the ground as the bard chews his lip, and he’s still a little damp from bathing in the clear pool nearby when Geralt slides his hands over his slender waist,

And he smells of _cedar,_

Of _smoke,_

Of _summer rose,_

As Geralt nuzzles over his cheekbone,

Smells of _anxiety_ and lingering _doubt,_

And Geralt knows it’ll take _time_ for it to work its way out of Jaskier’s system,

But that doesn’t mean he won’t do his _damndest_ to quicken the purge,

And it’s _here,_

_Now,_

In a clearing where they’ve made camp a handful of days outside of Novigrad,

When everything comes _full circle,_

When Geralt draws Jaskier _close,_ as he _should have_ when he realized that the _fear_ he’d felt when Jaskier had taken a boot to the chest when he was eighteen and unscathed was a fear _borne of_ -

“I love you,”

_And,_

Jaskier’s heart stumbles over itself,

As,

A soft breath catches and shatters in his throat,

And,

Geralt’s _never_ felt anything like this before,

Not in his _hundred-odd years,_

Has _never_ felt like he’s being broken apart and pulled back together all at once,

And he thinks his ashen heart might just _give in,_

Were Jaskier to _vanish_ beyond his reach,

Were Jaskier to go _white-faced,_

Too _silent,_

Too _still,_

If those bright blue eyes were to go _dark,_

And,

Geralt’s chest is packed with _wool_ as he gathers Jaskier close beside the fire,

As he slides a protective, _possessive_ hand over the soft dip of the bard’s spine,

As Jaskier cups the Witcher’s jaw and his lips part just a _hair’s breadth_ from Geralt’s, a tender, _agonizing_ tease that has Geralt’s breeches going _tight,_

And Jaskier’s bright, _sky-blue_ eyes flicker over Geralt’s face as he trails curious, questing fingertips over Geralt’s lips, his own just an agonizing hair’s breadth away, 

“Say it again,” Jaskier murmurs, “and _maybe_ I’ll forgive you, this time,” 

And Geralt has to work to swallow down a gentle groan as he starts to sink down to the blankets beside the fire, and Jaskier folds _so_ easily, all but _melts_ into Geralt as the Witcher bears them both down to the soft pile of blankets Jaskier _insisted_ on bringing with them,

Something he’s _ever_ so grateful now as he looms over Jaskier, cages him _in,_ pins him _down_ , the bulk of his body a fortress between the bard and the rest of the cruel world, and,

Jaskier’s throat is damp and smooth beneath Geralt’s lips when he nuzzles over his pulse, memorizing the _cadence_ of it, the way it flutters up against the tip of his tongue,

And Jaskier _moans_ , quiet and _needy,_ one hand fisting in Geralt’s dark tunic as his thighs part and his knees clutch at Geralt’s hips,

“I love you,” the Witcher murmurs, lost in the way the words taste, the way they remind him of honeywine and the rich musk of Jaskier’s seed; “I love you,” and,

He slides a hand over Jaskier’s flat belly,

As the bard’s clever fingers pluck at the buttons on his tunic,

As Jaskier chokes on a quiet, “Geralt, _please,_ ” and,

The kiss tastes like _mint_ , like _honey,_ like _smoke,_

As Geralt gentles Jaskier’s thighs down to peel him out of his breeches, until he’s all skin beneath him, 

And when Jaskier pushes gently at his chest, Geralt rolls with practiced ease onto his back, drags the bard over his hips, and Jaskier _groans_ like a starved beast when the _thick_ , hard line of Geralt’s cock presses up beneath him, _right_ against his ass,

“You _have_ to know,” Jaskier manages, the words like wine over Geralt’s lips, “tell me you know,” 

And his clever hands pull Geralt’s tunic apart,

Work at the laces of his breeches, all while Geralt slides his hands up Jaskier’s bare thighs, 

All while Geralt thumbs over the gentle V of his hips,

All while Geralt _sinks_ into it, lets the entirety of his very _being_ melt beneath the gentle, _needy_ attention of Jaskier’s hands, hands he knows _so_ well, hands that have been _mending_ him and _silently_ , secretly _breaking him apart_ for near twelve years,

And Geralt does know,

Has known,

But,

“Tell me yourself,” Geralt murmurs, and he toes out of his boots as Jaskier drags his breeches down, held aloft by Geralt’s hands curving around his hips, the hips meant to fit between his palms, “ _tell me,_ Jaskier, tell me what you’ve been dreaming of,” 

And,

“How is it you can be _so_ gentle and _so fucking cruel_ all at once?” Jaskier asks, voice gone _sideways_ , so _thick_ , and Geralt burrs low in his chest, a fission of heated _guilt_ rolling up into his throat with the sound, 

And he curls a hand around Jaskier’s nape as the other reaches for the bags, blindly seeking the oil as he drags his bard in for a kiss that starts _so_ sweet but doesn’t stay that way for long,

Because then Jaskier’s rutting slowly down against him, is _gasping_ into Geralt’s mouth when Geralt slides slick fingers between his thighs,

And what started so _sweet_ becomes heartbreakingly _desperate,_

Becomes _flush_ and _full_ of the words Jaskier won’t say,

Because he thinks this is some _cruel dream,_

Some _beautiful nightmare_ he’ll wake _weeping_ from,

And Geralt can _taste it,_

Tastes the _fear,_

The _doubt,_

The _need,_

_And,_

It was _him_ who _ruined this,_

And it’s _his fucking fault_ that Jaskier has been waking _weeping_ from beautiful nightmares for _six months,_

Six months that felt like _six thousand years,_

And Geralt sinks a finger into the _tight_ furl of the bard’s body as Jaskier pushes back against him, as Jaskier pants _quiet_ and _quick_ against Geralt’s coaxing tongue, 

As Geralt works him open as _gently_ as he dares, 

As Geralt swallows down Jaskier’s _pleading_ demands,

As he guides Jaskier over the blunt, fat head of his _aching_ cock,

And,

“ _Feel me_ ,” Geralt breathes against Jaskier’s jaw as he slowly curls upright, as he moves to settle Jaskier in his lap, legs bent beneath him, “I’m no _dream_ , Jaskier,” and,

“I see you watching me when you think I’m not looking, little lark,” and,

“Waiting for me to _disappear_ ,” but,

“I _won’t_ ,” because,

“I love you,” _so,_

“Forgive me,” 

And,

Jaskier’s arms slide around Geralt’s neck as he rides Geralt _so_ sweet, as he takes what he _needs_ , takes what Geralt so willingly _gives_ , arms of iron wrapped around Jaskier’s slender waist, one hand clutching at his nape,

And Jaskier curls a hand into Geralt’s hair, smears his lips over Geralt’s cheekbone, pants and _whines_ in his ear, _needy_ and _aching_ , furious and _wanting_ , as,

“I already _have_ ,” Jaskier confesses, voice strapped with a pain that has Geralt’s too-slow heart _writhing_ , “I did the moment I saw you - I don’t know what - you’ve _done_ to me,” and,

Jaskier’s voice _breaks_ ,

And his breath _hitches,_

As Geralt bears him back to the blankets, face buried in the juncture of Jaskier’s throat, where it smells _so richly_ of him, where Geralt mouths over his pulse and memorizes the _exact_ cadence of it, 

As,

“I _saw you,_ ” Jaskier pants, thick voice catching on the edge of a tear-soaked _groan_ as his back arches and his heels _dig_ into Geralt’s flexing thighs, “and - it was _over_ , all over, and _I knew_ \- whatever you _needed_ \- whatever you _wanted_ \- I’d _give it to you_ ,” and,

“I’d give you - _anything_ , you _bastard,_ ” 

And,

“ _You_ ,” Geralt murmurs against the bard’s ear, hand sliding over his hair, “I want you,” 

But,

“You’ve _always_ had me,” Jaskier says, smelling now of saltwater, and Geralt _tastes it_ as he ghosts his lips over the bard’s cheekbone, as he rolls his hips and gentles pleasure through the slender body he’s buried _so_ deep in; “because I’ve _always_ fucking _loved you,”_

And,

 _All Geralt can do_ is catch Jaskier’s soft, _quiet_ sob between his teeth,

And all he can do is grind out a gentle, _burring,_ pleading, “ _feel me_ ,” as he pumps his hips, as he bares his love the best way he knows _how,_

And Jaskier clings _so_ tight, arms winding around Geralt’s shoulders as his heels dig into Geralt’s thighs, as he keens and whines against Geralt’s ear, as he pulls gently at his hair and rolls his hips, and the scent of his need is a tide coming to swallow Geralt whole,

As Jaskier’s cock weeps _diamonds_ over his belly, 

As the bard slides a _desperate_ hand down the sweaty, _scarred_ line of Geralt’s back, fingertips _digging_ into the muscle rippling beneath his war-torn skin,

And Jaskier’s lithe, slender body is like _velvet_ around Geralt’s cock, is so fucking _hot_ and _tight_ , wet and _silken,_ and Geralt could _live_ like this, could stay here for hours, _days,_

Months,

_Years,_

Enough to make up for all the time they’ve fucking _wasted,_

All because of his _fear,_

All because it was a fear _borne of -_

“I love you,” Geralt says, and his voice is _deep_ , so deep it makes his _throat_ ache, and he slides an arm up under Jaskier’s lower back, gathers him as _close_ as he possibly can, until there’s no room for _doubt_ left between them, until Jaskier can barely even _writhe_ as Geralt fucks with purpose into him,

As he bites bruises down the line of Jaskier’s throat,

As he curls over the bard and pants against his chest, 

As he noses up under one of Jaskier’s arms, inhaling deep, breathing in the sheer scent of him, the scent he wishes he could drown in, and,

“Geralt, _please_ ,” Jaskier chokes out, hands pressed to Geralt’s chest, fumbling over his neck, fingers all tangled up in the silver chain that hangs from it, “ _touch me_ , please, darling, _touch me_ ,” and,

“I’ve been _dreaming_ \- of your _touch_ for _so long_ , just,” and,

 _“Oh,_ Gods, _oh, oh -”_

And,

Geralt sways back to watch as Jaskier comes undone, as his brow furls, as he digs his teeth into his bottom lip, as his shoulders roll back and his chin lifts, as his back arches and his hips crest to match his heartbeats,

As Geralt strips his cock sweet and slow as he thumbs over the weeping head, as he fucks into the velvet heat of the bard’s body, as he watches Jaskier writhe on his length, as he feels Jaskier’s cock tense and pulse in the gentle cage of his sword-calloused hand,

And it’s _beyond_ divine, the way Jaskier tastes, and it’s _beyond_ divine, the way his honeyed seed coats Geralt’s _aching_ throat, 

The way it becomes liquid _fire_ in the pit of Geralt’s gut,

And Jaskier’s sky-blue eyes are _dewy_ and so fucking _brilliant_ in the moonlight pouring through the canopy overhead as Geralt looms back to drink in the sight of him, hands splaying over Jaskier’s thighs; his body glimmers with sweat, ivory skin gone damp with _desire_ , with _release,_ with a pleasure _only Geralt_ can coax through him,

And something _possessive_ rears up in Geralt’s chest as he bows over Jaskier, as he catches Jaskier’s _needy_ groan between his teeth, as he kisses the bard with a tongue coated in Jaskier’s honeyed seed,

A taste Geralt will catch on his wicked tongue one more time before he buries himself between Jaskier’s shaking thighs, thighs that clutch weakly at his hips, desperate to keep holding on even as they strain and quiver,

And Geralt inches _closer_ and _closer_ to that little death with a _low_ , burring, slightly frantic, “ _Jaskier,_ ” that he buries right against Jaskier’s throat as the bard hushes him hoarsely, hushes him _so_ sweetly, hands sliding down Geralt’s back, legs wound lazily around his hips,

“That’s it, darling,” Jaskier murmurs wearily, blissfully, “ _that’s it,_ I have you, I have you,” and,

“You’re _so_ gorgeous, darling, you feel _so_ good,” and,

 _“I love you_ , my wolf, loved you so damn long,” and,

That’s all it takes for Geralt to come undone, for his vision to go white as his hips stutter and his cock pulses, the band at the base of his spine snapping as fine as a bowstring,

And Jaskier rubs his cheek against Geralt’s as the Witcher grows soft between his thighs, as Geralt breathes deep of the scent clinging to Jaskier’s throat, right under his ear,

As he slides _devoted_ hands up the slender, slick line of Jaskier’s waist,

And,

“I’m sorry,” Geralt murmurs, and Jaskier slides a _strong_ , reassuring hand over his chest, “I should’ve told you I loved you the moment I knew,”

_But,_

“It’s alright,” Jaskier says quietly, “I forgive you,” 

And Geralt _melts_ down against Jaskier as the bard slides his arms around his shoulders, as he presses up against Geralt,

Until there’s no more room left between them for _fear,_

For _anger,_

For _doubt,_


End file.
